


a little bit of style, grace

by shades



Series: like thieves in the night [4]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alternative Universe - the gang gives a good god damn about Arthur Morgan, Curtains Fic, Multi, Prohibition
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-14
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:00:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27016171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shades/pseuds/shades
Summary: “I am a grown man,” Jack seethes.  “I don’t need my momma telling me how to do my damn job.  I got thiscovered.”“You did get shot last time,” Charles says mildly.“Only a little!”
Relationships: Arthur Morgan/Charles Smith
Series: like thieves in the night [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1572790
Comments: 7
Kudos: 77





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really can't believe that 'take it, if you can' just hit 500 kudos, so this seemed as good a time as any to post the start of this timestamp. I'm toiling away at this and life is a bit nuts, so updates may be a bit more sporadic than they were before - but! I'm excited and quietly chipping away at it.
> 
> Ratings, tags, etc all will evolve with later chapters. See A/N for a potential trigger.

“Oh goddamn, you sonuvabitch, you bastard,” Jack snarls, sticking a grease covered thumb in his mouth, sucking blood off the tear in his finger pad. “Fuck, _fuck_ , god dammit doll, pull yourself together,” he murmurs pleadingly, bending over the Coupe’s exposed engine, chewing his bottom lip. Distracted, he pats the front driver’s side tire with his good hand, unthinkingly echoing the way his father has calmed a thousand nervous horses over the years. 

“God damn, you bite when you’re feeling stroppy, don’t you? I’m sorry, dollface,” he mutters, tying a dirty handkerchief around his thumb. “Come on, come on now, almost there. We gotta get you all done up for your big night, don’t we?” he says, cursing under his breath when the new belt finally snaps in place. “There we go, don’t that feel better?”

Sighing, Jack leans back against the driver’s side door, wiping his sleeve over his sopping forehead. January in Wisconsin is hellaciously frigid, the kind of cold that kills men and snaps fir trees into splinters, but the safe house is well-heated, at least. Well _safe house_ , more of a refitted old barn, most of the stalls torn out and replaced with workbenches. A piping hot pellet stove is roaring away against one wall, throwing off waves of glorious heat. In the corner, a clunky cabinet radio is crackling away in the otherwise quiet night. 

“ _...and that, ladies in gentlemen, was the lovely Miss Marion Harris with ‘Look for a Silver Lining.’ I certainly shall, Miss Harris, I certainly shall. Now folks, I hope you’re staying nice and warm out there this evening, better than our dear boys in blue down in the Windy City, who are doing all they can this night to track down a gang of hoodlums in the pay of villainous bootleggers who are trafficking their liquor into our fair city. Vile men, I have no doubt, peddling their poison to those souls chasing whatever bathtub swill they can find. Chief Mannion of the Chicago Police Department made a statement earlier today, appealing to the public for information about Northside Gang, who have been implicated in a number of high speed chases through-_ ”

Jack shuts the radio off, rolling his eyes. Police Chief Mannion talks some awfully big game for a man Jack had personally served rye to on more than one occasion, even helped him to a cab a time or five when the damn fool got himself ossified down at The Velvet and couldn’t tell ass from elbow. Keeping up appearances is all well and good, but dear lord the man went on.

Above one of the work benches, a cuckoo clock chimes the hour, a brightly colored sparrow popping out of its hutch and counting off nine energetic little tweets. 

“Where the hell is Lenny,” Jack sighs, stalking over to a shard of mirror tacked up above the slop sink, washing his hands and then his face in the frigid water. The soap cuts through most of the grease, but some lingers beneath his chewed down fingernails. Good enough, he decides, tipping his chin up at his reflection, carefully smoothing down his delicately trimmed pencil-thin mustache. Ah, god damn, he needs more wax. And a bath. And some pomade for his hair, while he’s at it - it would be no good showing up on Maeve’s doorstep looking like some half-feral tumbleweed, fresh out of the boonies. Good lord, she’s going to laugh him out of the room - 

There's a sudden clamour at the door - a man’s voice shouting. Jack spins around frantically, reaching for the pistol tucked in the small of his back.

“Hey, Jackie boy!” Lenny calls, muffled through the barn doors, “What’s the big idea, it’s cold as hell out here -”

“Jesus fucking - agh!” Jack swears, stalking over to the barns double doors, lifting the heavy plank of wood holding them shut. “God dammit Uncle Lenny!” he yells, dragging the door open. “There’s a god damn password, I could’a shot you!”

Oh for - he’d taken the god damn horses and wagon. _Again_. No wonder he's late. Lenny sits bundled up in the driver’s seat, grinning at Jack as he urges the horses inside. It's Weston and Cassius hitched up to the yolk, the young draft horses they’d taken on at Serendipity a few summers back, each of them 17 hands high with the temperament of concussed ducklings. 

“Like to see you try, whippersnapper,” Lenny says, the crows feet around his eyes deepening as he grins. “We’re in the middle of God knows where, who you expecting? J. Edgar? You gonna take him out with that little pop gun of yours?” he asks, nodding at Smith and Wesson still clutched in Jack’s hand.

“This is a Smith and Wesson model 19, you know - and what the hell are you doin’ taking the goddamn horses?” Jack asks, pushing on before Lenny can laugh at him again. He reaches up, patting Cassius’ neck. “I left a perfectly good truck up there for you all to use, it’s 1921 for the love of god, ain’t you joined this century yet?”

“Horses don’t get flat tires,” Lenny says, swinging down out of the driver’s seat and folding Jack into a tight, chilly hug. “And they don’t run out of gasoline, either.”

“They coulda thrown a shoe! Or broken a leg!” Jack says petulantly, face mashed into Lenny’s shoulder. 

"Oh relax,” Lenny said, patting his back. “Roads between here and the border are more footpath than anything else. I can take a wagon through the eye of a needle, but those damn cars handle like a drunk elephant.”

“They do not,” Jack mutters, walking around to the back of the wagon, “Not if you actually put the time into learning to _drive_ , I swear, you’re all stubborn as mules.”

“Hey, I’d be careful back there-” Lenny calls, but Jack waves him away. At least Lenny took one of the larger wagons, all sealed up tight against the weather, big enough that the contraband was likely tucked safely away in straw. 

“I got it, I got it,” he says, hauling himself up on the foot rail and tugging open the back doors, already distracted with thoughts of getting the booze packed away in the Coupe’s dozen hiding places - it was mostly moonshine from the farm’s stills, but Molly had put through an order for some high end Scotch from overseas that would need some extra care if it was gonna get there intact - 

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” Jack yelps, stumbling off the back of the wagon and throwing his hands up in the air, looking wildly down the barrels of the two sawed-off shotguns leveled right at his eyes. “Lenny - what the - oh god _dammit_ ,” he shouts, unable to stop himself from stomping his foot like a child. “What the hell are you two doing here?”

In the back of the wagon, nestled between the crates, Arthur lays sprawled back against Charles’ chest, sitting comfortably between his thighs. Both men blink sleepily at him, the guns raised, aimed, and cocked all by stubborn, well-honed reflexes.

“Hey there Jackie,” Arthur said, lowering his gun. “That ain’t no way to say hello, now is it?”

~*~

“I _told_ you, I can do this run on my own,” Jack mutters ten minutes later, shoving a kettle of water on the stove with poor grace. 

“You tell that to your momma,” Arthur calls, walking another crate over to the coupe and setting it down carefully. “Ain’t much in this world I’m afraid of, but Abigail Marston in a temper ranks pretty high.”

Jack blushes furiously, digging through a cabinet for the instant coffee, ignoring Lenny’s snickering where he was warming his hands by the stove.

“I am a grown man,” Jack seethes. “I don’t need my momma telling me how to do my damn job. I got this _covered_.”

“You did get shot last time,” Charles says mildly. He’s seeing to the horses in a far corner of the barn, backing the huge dolts into the last remaining stalls with sure, gentle hands.

“Only a little!” Jack shouts. “It was a through and through! I swear, she’s given worse to my old man when they’re fighting!”

“Well, be that as it may,” Arthur says, grinning at him sunnily, “Your dear mother asked us a favor and far be it from Charles and me to leave a lady in distress.”

“You could’a warned me,” Jack says to Lenny, who just holds up his hands in surrender. 

“If you think you’re scarier than your momma when she’s fretful about you, you got another thing coming,” he says. “Cheer up, kid. Maybe they’ll take you to a soda shop down in the big city.”

“Only if he eats his peas and carrots first,” Arthur says, dropping the last of the crates off at the car and wandering over to the stove. “You got that coffee on yet? Holy Mary mother of god, what the hell is that on your face?”

Jack’s hand went up to his face unthinking, smoothing over his mustache.

“It’s a mustache,” he says shortly, spitefully pouring too much instant into the mug for Arthur, producing a tary black sludge that Arthur knocks back without wincing. Animals. They were all goddamn animals. 

“Is that what that is?” Arthur says, feigning fascination. He frowns, looking him over more closely. “Does mustache mean something different down in Chicago?”

“I seen pictures of you from the old days, Uncle Arthur,” Jack snaps, “You had a handlebar so long it was practically dragging on the ground. It’s a wonder you didn’t trip.”

These days, Arthur is clean shaven, maybe on account of the way his hair has started going silver at the temples. His clean cut jaw does make him look younger than his years though, just a dusting of stubble over his sun-creased, laugh-lined face. He grins at Jack cheekily. “What can I say, guess all men do damn strange things with their hair when they’re young and dumb.”

“That’s the Shires seen to,” Charles announces, coming up behind Arthur and sliding an arm around his middle, chin resting on his shoulder. “Lenny, you’ll look after them while we’re gone?”

“Yeah, guess me and the boys are gonna have a nice night hanging out here,” Lenny sighs. “Least I got the radio for company, I suppose. I’m hoping you all are gonna try to keep your names outta the news, then? Only, I got a bum knee these days, and Abigail’s still a crack shot when she’s riled. I don’t like the idea of going back home without you three.”

“Ah, when have we ever got into trouble?” Charles says, grinning as he steals a sip of Arthur’s coffee. His eyes slide over to Jack and he raises his eyebrows. “Now, what the hell is that on your face?”

Jack slams the kettle back down on the stove. “God _dammit_!”

~*~

They’re on the road by 10:00 pm, slipping from the safehouse into the deep, rich envelope of night. It’s a new moon, but the world is cast in white by starlight, the air too cold for even wisps of clouds to stretch across the sky. Far, far above, Jack can see the distant arm of the Milky Way, churning away beyond the curtain of stars. 

“Shouldn’t be more than an hour or so to the city,” Jack says, distracted as he opens the engine up enough to get them along at a decent clip, but not so much any lurking Prohis would be suspicious. “But this is the worst part of the trip. Bastard Feds are hiding around every corner.” 

He sets the car in gear and absently rubs his bicep where the bullet wound is still pink and tender. That had been an embarrassment more than anything - clipped by some smug copper as he was jetting away down the backroads to the Chicago safehouse, far outstripping the little po-dunk automobiles the officers drove, but not nearly fast enough to dodge a bullet. Maeve hadn’t looked impressed, exactly, when he’d pulled in bloody and swearing, but she hadn’t looked indifferent either, busily ringing up the sawbones as the rest of Molly’s men unloaded the Coupe. He was certain she’d been relieved when the doc said he’d live. He was _sure_ of it. That had to mean - 

“I hope you’re not trusting him with the map,” Charles says from the backseat, bundled up so much it seemed impossible he was able to move. 

Beside him in the passenger seat, Arthur frowns. “What?” he asks, peering myopically at the much-folded piece of paper. “I can read a damn map, Charles -”

“He forgot his glasses,” Charles goes on smoothly, ignoring him.

“I didn’t forget nothing! I don’t _need_ the damn glasses, I - “

“What's the name of the next cross street?” Charles asks, voice mild. In the rearview, Jack can see that he’s grinning. 

Arthur curses, holding the paper away from his face, “It’s - it’s, uh...dammit, there’s no light! It’s East, uh-”

Without looking, Jack plucks the map out of Arthur’s hands and passes it back to Charles. “It’s Bastion Pike,” he sighs, rubbing his forehead. “Uncle Charles, you want to ride shotgun?”

There’s a _lot_ of grumbling about that, but Arthur manages to clamber over the bench seat and lands sprawled across Charles’ lap. There’s a quiet, husky chuckle and Jack taps the breaks just hard enough that both men yelp, especially when Jack over corrects slightly and they fishtail before he gets them straightened out. 

“Bank’s closed, fellas,” Jack says, ducking a swat from Charles as he climbs into the front seat. “‘Sides, I thought no funny business on the job?”

“Uh-huh,” Charles says, unimpressed. “So where we off loading all this? Never done this part of the route before.”

“I know, you old-timers are usually restin’ on your laurels while the rest of us do the heavy lifting,” Jack says breezily, smirking when Arthur starts to mutter mutinously in the back seat about boxed ears and respect for one’s elders. “But we got a warehouse bit north of downtown that Mrs. McCroy oversees, so long as we make it there, her boys will unload us, send the hooch on to the speakeasies, quiet-like.”

“Mrs. McCroy,” Arthur echos, shaking his head in something like amusement. “Still not used to calling her that.”

“Molly’s been widowed more than fifteen years,” Charles says, “Really?”

Arthur whistles through his teeth. “It been that long already? Damn. Hey, what happened to that feller she wed - Cillian McCroy? Weren’t he the last head of that gang she’s running now?”

“Official story?” Jack says, shifting gears, “Mister McCroy, though an accomplished...businessman...tended to fall victim to drink when he wasn’t roughing up rivals or putting hits out on coppers. So, one unlucky evening, after drinking most of the liquor cart dry, the poor man fell down the marble stairs in their townhome and broke his neck.”

Charles raises an eyebrow. “And the unofficial story?” 

“Well, he may have fallen down the stairs like they say, but if he did, it’s because someone stuck a stiletto in his eye first.”

Arthur whistles lowly. “Shoe or knife?”

“Shoe,” Jack says, grinning a little. “Heard tell that in addition to roughing up any amount of his business rivals, Mister McCroy wasn’t above striking a woman when he was on the bottle. And it seems the Widow McCroy took particular objection to that.” He glanced in the rearview. “Unofficially, of course.”

“Of course,” Arthur says, rolling his eyes. “Well, good on Molly, then. In a world full of bastards, she’s got a talent for finding the worst of the worst.”

Jack shrugs, “To hear it told, I think she woulda bumped him off eventually, even if he hadn’t raised his hand to her. Molly’s the one that turned the Northside Gang from a bunch of thugs into the sleek, diversified enterprise we now are. Think Mr. McCroy lacked vision on that front.”

“ _Diversified_ ,” Arthur drawls. “Now there’s a four-dollar word. I suppose that means she’s runnin’ women and gambling halls as well as bathtub gin?”

Jack snorts. “Best treated working girls in Chicago work for Molly McCroy. She keeps ‘em safe and pays them well.”

“Ain’t judging, god knows,” Arthur says, raising his hands. “Just nice to see someone making such an honest criminal life for themselves, that’s all.”

“Doesn’t she have a daughter?” Charles asks, frowning in thought, “Mary, Margaret, - “

“Maeve,” Jack says quickly. Too quickly, as it turns out, if the glance Charles and Arthur exchange is any indication. “Uh. Yeah. Maeve McCroy. She’s about 20 now. Works for her momma making sure things get where they need getting. She’s meeting us at the warehouse tonight to oversee us unpacking the goods.”

“Hmmm…” Charles says, in that calm, infuriating way that makes Jack feel like he’s all of five-years old again. “Pretty girl?”

“Suppose so,” Jack says shortly. 

“Heard she’s got her momma’s hair,” Arthur says, grinning. “ _And_ her temper.”

“Don’t see what business that is of mine,” Jack says airily, but he pets down his mustashe in the mirror again, checking to make sure it still looks sharp.

“Uh- _huh_ ,” Charles says and peers back over his shoulder to give Arthur one of their indecipherable looks. The two fools hardly needed words to gossip back and forth anymore - just whole conversations playing out with nothing more than raised eyebrows and tilted heads.

“Shut it,” Jack said, punching the Coupe into a higher gear.

Arthur gives him a wide-eyed, innocent look. “Ain’t said a word, young Jack,” he says, but he lets the matter drop, looking indulgent and wistful as he sprawls out in the back seat, grinning dumbly at the back of Charles’ head.

The car whips through the night, snaking across the frozen farmland like a bullet, forever just behind the V-shaped spill of light from the headlights. On their left, Lake Michigan looks like a prairie, vast and flat and white with ice, frozen over now for weeks. If the engine wasn’t roaring so loud, they might’ve been able to hear the distant creak and grind of the ice floes shifting restlessly far out from shore, but here at the lip of the lake, it's as solid as pavement, dusted over with fresh, powdery snow.

It’s not until the lights of the city are drawing nearer that Jack catches the headlights in the rearview, appearing suddenly as if someone had just pulled out behind them.

“Shit,” he mutters, pressing down the accelerator to see if the tail speeds up to keep pace. It does. Of course. Wonderful, these two assholes were gonna go back to his momma and tell her he couldn’t keep outta trouble on a one-hour drive. He was never gonna hear the end of this. “Look alive, old-timers. Think we’ve got a friend.”

“Thank god,” Arthur yawns, blinking awake. “I was starting to get bored. You sure they’re trouble?”

As he says it, blue, revolving lights flip on and a groaning siren rouses out of silence, swelling up through the quiet night like a soprano during warm ups. A moment later, Jack clocks a second set of headlights not far behind the first.

“You just had to fuckin’ ask, didn’t you?” Jack groans. “The guns are -”

“I know where the damn guns are,” Arthur mutters, digging around in the well behind Charles seat. “Oh, what the hell is this?” he mutters, dragging out one of the two Tommy guns Jack had packed for the trip.

“It’s a _gun_ , Uncle Arthur,” Jack snaps, “Kindly point it at the goddamn Prohis riding our ass now, would you?”

Charles tsks absently when Arthur passes the gun up front, absently cranking the window down. “ _This_ nonsense. Time was you had to have some _skill_ to kill a man.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Jack says, now shouting to be heard over the scream of the engine and the approaching sirens. “I get it, your old sawed-off is the height of precision and skill. What the hell were you expecting?” 

In the back seat, Arthur has already cranked down the driver’s side window. “Wouldn’t say no to a damn scoped rifle,” he shouts back.

“Really?” Jack says, sarcastically, whipping them around a tight corner just to make a point, all of them straining against the inertia. “You wanna line up a shot, fire, and reload like this? It ain’t a goddamn stagecoach, Uncle Arthur!”

Charles sighs. “More’s the pity. You hold her steady now, you hear? This is gonna get loud,” he says, moving so he can perch out the open window. In the backseat, Arthur does the same, giving Jack a cheeky salute before he ducks out into the frigid, whipping wind. 

In the rearview, the coppers notice a second too late, trying to swerve out of range, but Charles and Arthur open fire, the hammering _rat-a-tat-tat_ of the Tommy guns screeching along with the sirens and the engine.

“Aim for the tires!” Jack shouts, punching the Coupe until the engine is vibrating through the whole of the car. He’s spent more hours in that motor than he has up a woman’s skirts (to his shame), and she performs like a dream, sleek and fast, shifting between gears like a dancer. Despite it all, the coppers behind him, the thundering gunshots, Jack grins.

“Oh, you hear that, Charles?” Arthur calls, voice muffled, “He says aim for the _tires_.”

Charles snorts, popping out a spent drum and slapping a new magazine in place. “Lord, now why didn’t we think of that?”

“Brace up,” Jack shouts, ignoring them. Behind them, the coppers are leaning out their own windows. “Gonna try to dodge ‘em. Hold on tight.” 

The road here is broad and empty enough that when he swerves across the lanes, the copper’s shots go wild, but he definitely hears the ping of metal on metal somewhere on the back of the car. “Ah, I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he soothes, petting the dash absently. “Gonna get that all fixed up now, you hear? Just keep on keeping us safe, that’s my girl.”

Arthur and Charles have both straightened back up, and this time when they open fire, Jack is relieved to hear the screech of a car spinning out of control. In the rearview, he watches as one of the sets of lights goes pinwheeling out of sight, skidding wildly into the drifts that line the road. 

“Think that one was mine,” Charles says; his voice sounds like he’s grinning. 

“Aw, like hell it was, I definit-”

“Still a car back there!” Jack shouts, “I know you ain’t that blind, Uncle Arthur!”

“Yeah, yeah, Jesus Christ, you’re a task master, ain’t you? We’ll get it - “

“ _Shit_ ,” Jack shouts, “Get back in the car right fuckin’ now!”

To their credit they don’t argue, dropping back into their seats and slouching down out of view. 

In the back, Arthur grumbles, “What the-”

“Road block,” Charles says grimly, his eyes following Jack’s to the parade of sand barrels and swirling lights a ways up the road. 

“ _This_ is why you need the damn horses,” Arthur gripes, “You can take them _off road_.”

Jack rolls his eyes so hard they strain. “Yeah, sure, and I bet they’d be able to outrun the goddamn patrol cars, wouldn’t they?”

“Can you turn us around?” Charles asks.

Jack sighs, glancing in the rearview; the road isn’t quite wide enough to pull off a bootlegger's turn, and the coppers are too close behind - and too close ahead, for that matter - to get away clean. And even if he could manage it, that would mean there’s no way they’re getting into Chicago tonight, not with half a dozen squad cars cramming up the road ahead and god knows however many of Chicago PD’s finest looking to make a name for themselves. 

“Charles, take a look at that map. Best as you can figure, what’s the next cross road?”

Charles digs the map back out of the glove box and looks it over. “Looks like an access road, cuts from the lake out over to some farms.” He glances over at Jack, frowning. “If we head to the farms, we’re just gonna get boxed in. Possibly with some innocent folk that don’t deserve getting caught in the crossfire.”

Jack grins again, madly, and drums his fingers on the wheel. “Well, we ain’t gonna be going to the farms, I know that road. It ends in a boat ramp.”

“And what’s that got to do with the price of tea in China?” Arthur asks, cursing colorfully as the coppers in pursuit open fire again, smashing the back window open in a shower of glass. 

“Ya’ll might want to hold on to something,” Jack says smugly, and takes the next turn near to full speed, fishtailing wildly across the half-frozen, packed dirt road. Behind them, the coppers don’t make the turn near as easy, over-shooting the road and slamming on the breaks before they ponderously start to turn around. 

“I don’t like where this is going,” Arthur sighs.

Jack laughs, alive with adrenaline and the recklessness of being 24 and on the wrong side of the law and so near to being in love that it doesn’t matter. “Feel free to close your eyes, old man.”

Charles is still braced tensely against the dashboard. “You think those coppers up at the roadblock are gonna join chase?” 

“No way, no how,” Jack says. “Fools put themselves behind the damn barricade. They’ll have to off road it or dismantle it to get around it, and by then we’ll be long gone.”

“Still got our friends in pursuit, though,” Arthur says, peeking out the back window at the lights now gaining on them. 

“I’m sure we’ll figure something out.” Ahead, the huge, white expanse of Lake Michigan rushes towards them, and Jack can just make out the divet in the shoreline ahead where the ramp descends into the frozen water. There’s a rickety wooden gate blocking off access, but it’s weathered and flimsy.

“Brace up, old timers. ‘Bout to get a little bumpy.”

Jack has enough time to see Arthur reach up and squeeze Charles’ shoulder, who covers Arthur’s hand with his own, before they go crashing madly through the gate and meeting the frozen lake with a teeth-jolting impact, swerving madly out onto the flat expanse of ice. 

The coppers slow their pursuit for a moment, but whoever’s got the wheel is either confident or a fool because moments later, the squad car is roaring out onto the ice behind them. Jack clocks them in the rearview and, rather than following the shoreline down to the glowing lights of the city, punches the gas and heads straight out into the lake.

“I’m telling your mother you lost your damn mind,” Arthur says, shouting to be heard.

“You know what we do to stool pigeons, don’t you Uncle Arthur?” Jack says, grinning as the icy air whips over his face. “Alright now, just a little closer,” he murmurs to himself, downshifting and watching the lights of the cop car inch closer. “Okay fellas, hold onto something and get ready to fire out the passenger side.”

It had been Maeve that taught him how to pull off this particular maneuver, grinning at him from the passenger seat and egging him on until he had no choice but to try it at full speed, just to see the wild delight in her eyes, hear the pretty spill of her laughter in the drenching heat of an August afternoon. Doing it on ice - well - that’s probably no picnic, but he figures he’s got the basics down. What’s the worst that could happen?

“They’re gaining on us,” Charles points out calmly. “I thought you had this thing all done up to outstrip the paddy wagons?”

_Right. Here we go._ “Have a little faith,” Jack says and, in the span of one heartbeat, drops the Coupe into second, spins the wheel, and jams his shaking foot down on the break. 

The car _twirls_ , spinning beautifully around in a heart-clenching arc. It doesn’t take more than a second, but time moves so slowly as they complete the turn, the stars sliding by with ponderous clarity, a screen of powdery snow leaping onto the windshield, kicked up by the tires. He thinks he hears Arthur screaming bloody murder in the backseat, which he will certainly delight in later, but right now, it’s just pride thrumming through him, in pulling off the spin, in the beautifully alive machinery that bends so easily to his instruction. 

When time catches up with them again, they’ve done a full 180 on the ice, skidding to a stop on a dime. In front of them, the cop car is still barreling towards them, sirens blaring and bleeding blue and red light into the night. Jack grins and punches the car into action, heading straight back the way they came, the motor screaming up through the gears as they accelerate. The cops’ faces are close enough to read now - some swindly looking rat bastards who are too busy shouting at one another to actually figure out whether they should break or steer. Without being told, Arthur and Charles fire out the windows as they whip by - it’s too fast to follow, but they must either hit the engine or the driver, because the car goes spinning out of control, nearly starting to roll as the skid becomes uncontrollable. 

It’s not silent in the moments after, not with the Coupe’s engine singing so beautifully under Jack’s hands, but it’s as close as they can get. The distant whine of the siren, still ringing out on the ruined car behind them, fades into the night. In the car, Charles and Arthur are breathing heavy, both turning to look out the back window. 

“We’ll take the ice the rest of the way to the city,” Jack says, panting happily. “Warehouse is on the water, anyway.”

“Sure,” Charles says, faintly, “Whatever you say, kid.”

~*~

By the time they reach the warehouse looming on the northside of the city, it’s clear the Coupe has taken more damage than Jack originally thought - there’s some rattle coming from the axles and a worrisome grind from the engine. 

“It supposed to be making that noise?” Arthur asks as they limp up the boat ramp behind the warehouse. A crew of guys that had, moments before, been standing around idly, suddenly produce a small arsenal of weapons when they notice the car pulling up. Jack sticks his hand out the window to wave them off. 

“We’ll make a mechanic of you yet with that keen observation,” Jack drawls. He leans out the window, shouting at the men. “Hey fellas, it’s Jack! Ran into trouble north of here, ya’ll still want the hooch or should we just - “

“Jesus Christ, Jack,” one of the guys hollers. By his height and girth, it’s Higgins, one of Molly’s least imaginative and most reliable runners. “We thought for sure you’d be a no-show. Heard the Prohis were setting up a road block north of the city.”

“Well, we got creative,” Jack says, giving him a shit-eating grin. 

Higgins looks out over the frozen lake and laughs faintly. “I’ll bet you did. Hey, get that door open!” he shouts, turning around to the rest of the men. “We gotta delivery to see to.”

The warehouse doors are hauled open, and Jack steers the sputtering car inside, murmuring soft apologies and endearments as he finally slides her into park.

“You talk that sweet to the ladies, you might have more luck with them,” Charles says, chuckling as he opens the door. 

“Yeah, and what would you know about it, Uncle Charles?” Jack says, but it’s said with a grin and all Charles does is roll his eyes in reply. 

Jack has already circled around to the engine and popped the hoods by the time Higgins makes his way over, still holding a Tommy gun across his chest. 

“Who’re the spares?” he asks in an undertone.

“My uncles,” Jack says, gesturing as Charles and Arthur unfold themselves from the car, bitching to each other about their backs and necks and surreptitiously checking one another over for wounds. “Charles Smith, Arthur Morgan - this is Eoin Higgins, one of Molly’s lads.”

At Higgins’ confused look, Jack rolls his eyes. “Not blood relations,” he says dryly.

“Well, suppose any friend of Molly is a friend of ours,” Higgins says after a moment. 

Arthur snorts. “Glad to hear it. You boys need help unloading, or - “

“I’m sure they’ll be fine,” a woman’s voice calls down. There’s an office perched near the ceiling of the warehouse, awash in amber light, and a young woman is descending the stairs at an unhurried pace. A fool might mistake her for a boy - she’s dressed in trousers and a vest, and her long hair has been carefully pinned up under a pageboy hat, but Jack would recognize her if he was blinded. 

“Maeve,” Jack says, anxiously whipping off his fedora; his fingers itch to trace his mustache one last time, but he stomps down the impulse. “Wasn’t sure you’d be here.”

She smiles at him briefly, reaching the floor and snapping at the rest of the crew to get to work unloading the car. “Well...wasn’t so sure you’d be here either. Got word too late about the roadblock, otherwise I would have sent word ahead. Figured you’d have to turn back. _Hoped_ you weren’t stupid enough to fight an entire blockade. Didn’t even _think_ you were crazy enough to take my car out on the ice.”

“Well, it's not nice to keep a lady waiting,” Jack says, shifting anxiously as her eyes flit over him. The wind has destroyed his hair, and his shirt is probably soaked through with sweat from the chase. Rallying, he adds, “ _And_ , I’d say it’s more my car than yours, at this point. I’ve chucked out most of the amateur parts you had in her to begin with.”

She snorts, looking over the engine speculatively. “Ship of Theseus, and all that, but you do have nerve.” Her eyes flick over to Arthur and Charles, who’ve been watching this exchange with far too much amusement. “You two must be the uncles I’ve heard so much about,” she says, smiling. 

“That’s right, Miss McCroy,” Charles says, tipping his hat at her. “We knew your momma from way back when.”

“Oh, I know, it’s not just Jack I’ve heard stories from,” she says, giving them a bright, girlish grin. “Momma was wondering if any of you could be teased outta your farm long enough to visit.”

“You can thank Jack’s brush with lead poisoning for that,” Arthur says, one corner of his mouth tucked up in a grin. “After that, his momma-”

“Anyway,” Jack says loudly, clapping his hands, “I’m afraid it’s not gonna be wholly possible to get ourselves back up north tonight.” He gestures at the engine. “I’m gonna need some time to polish her back up - there’s some belts that’ll need replacing more than likely, and I reckon I did something to the axle going out on the ice.”

“Not to mention my _spine_ ,” Arthur grunts, but quiets when Charles elbows him in the side. 

Maeve sighs, looking over the damage critically. “Well, you’re not wrong, but we just finished polishing up Brian Kelly’s Studebaker from a run he did down to Gary, and we’re low on parts. Might be a few days before we can get in all we need.”

Jack just stands there, trying not to look too hopeful, but he doubts his tentative posture is missed by either Mave _or_ his damn grinning Uncles. 

“Let me make a phone call real quick,” she says. Before she turns back to her office, she goes up on her tip toes and presses a chaste, soft kiss against Jack’s cheek. “Glad you made it okay. And I like the new mustache, it suits you.”

Jack is still rubbing his cheek, watching her stride up the stairs, when he feels the heavy weight of Charles’ and Arthur’s regard on his back. He whips his hand down.

“Don’t start,” he snaps, rubbing his hand back through his hair before jamming the fedora back in place. 

“Wasn’t gonna say nothing,” Arthur says innocently. “She seems like a nice girl. _Friendly_.”

“Aw, leave him be, Arthur,” Charles says, which Jack knows far too well to take at face value. Sure enough, he adds, “Boy’s just had his first kiss. I think he’s supposed to be that color.”

“Fuck. You. Both,” Jack mutters, ducking his head back down to the engine, as if that’ll chase the heat from his cheeks. “It was _not_ my first - anyway, what the hell would you two know about it? You’re worse than an old married couple, I swear.”

Here, this far out from the farm and the folks that know them, they were more careful, but Arthur still stands proudly inside Charles’ personal space, close enough their fingers are brushing. First they grin at each other and then at Jack. 

“Is the car really in bad shape?” Charles asks, “Or is this just you asking if she wants to come up to see your etchings?”

“Tch, like I could feed her any line of bullshit about a car, she taught me half the tricks I know,” Jack says. He sighs, trailing his fingers over the cooling metal. “No, she’s in bad shape. Gonna take some doing to get her to rights again.”

“Can’t we just take another?” Arthur says, near enough to whining as to make no difference. “There’s plenty around here. You could probably just pick one up off the street.”

“Would you leave Elora behind just because she turned up lame?” Jack asks, referencing the palomino mare Arthur’s been doting on since she was just a foal. “I’m not leaving her behind. She deserves better than that.”

Before Arthur can fight him on it, Maeve’s voice echoes down from the office. 

“Alright, boys,” she calls, trotting down the steps. “Just spoke with Momma. She says she’ll get Mr. Braun in to fix up the Coupe, but it’ll take a few days. I’m gonna send one of the boys up to the Wisconsin safe house to let your man know not to worry too much when you don’t come home tonight, damn Feds shouldn’t be watching the roads _out_ of town near as close as the ones going _in_.” She gives them a sunny smile. “Also, momma said you all are welcome down in the city for a few nights, should you be interested in seeing where all your hard work goes.”

“In the city?” Charles asks, raising his eyebrows.

“It’s like a big village,” Jack says smartly, “Except it’s got paved roads and hoity-toity stuff like electricity and indoor plumbing.”

Maeve grins as Jack ducks a half-hearted smack from Charles, shaking her head. “We got a few apartments down the Mag Mile you’re welcome to, not too far from one of Momma’s clubs.”

“Am I gonna have any trouble getting into these buildings?” Charles asks significantly, canting an eyebrow at her. 

Maeve shakes her head. “Momma may not own the lease on the building, but she’s got just about every doorman and maid on her payroll. She doesn’t stand for that sorta thing.”

Charles and Arthur share a glance, both looking pretty worn down from the ride. Jack wouldn’t put it past them just to ask for a cot in the warehouse and spend the next few days eating beans out of cans and shooting pigeons for protein. He’s standing behind Maeve now, so when they glance over at him, he gives them a pleading look, his eyes darting hopefully to the back of her head.

After a beat, Charles nods, and Arthur, taking his decision, sighs. “Alright, alright. Guess it couldn’t hurt to see what Molly’s been up to all these years.”

Jack can’t keep the grin off his face as Maeve turns around, absently straightening his lapel and patting his chest. 

“Wonderful,” she says, “I’ll have one of the boys bring around the Town Car.” She grins over her shoulder at three of them as she makes her way to the door, “Time to show you how the other half lives.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw for off-screen domestic violence and alcoholism
> 
> \- Technically, Arthur and Charles should be in their mid-to-late 50s in 1921, but I’m handwaving that and saying they’re early-to-mid 40s. I don’t have a good explanation except I want them to be and the magic of fanfiction makes it possible,  
> \- I started out trying to make sure that this was Wholly Accurate for 1921 Chicago, but after spending like half an hour trying to figure out what kind of street lamps were used during that time period, I gave up. So! It’s not like I’m giving them cell phones, but there’s probably a few anachronisms that have crept in. Please be patient (also the game has a literal time traveler so ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯)  
> -So many, many thanks to [superfxckboy](https://superfxckboy.tumblr.com/) who beta'd this TWICE because gdocs lost the first draft. Thank you so very very much!  
> -As always, I'm over at [allthingsmustfall](https://allthingsmustfall.tumblr.com/) on tumblr.


	2. Chapter 2

Chicago at 1am is drowsy and restless, populated by insomniacs and transients and golden, flashy youngsters stumbling away from their favorite speakeasy in pearls and suits and smudged eyeliner. The trolleys have long stopped running and only a few other cars are on the road, sliding unhurriedly through the yellow spill of streetlights. A part of Arthur had known that the world had continued growing during their retirement, becoming both bigger and smaller as technology moved them along, but it didn’t really occur to him how much the world had changed until the town car is sliding down Michigan avenue, past shuttered storefronts and stately, towering skyscrapers. The street is ludicrously broad and well lit, but even so, it feels insignificant, just a shallow canal of light easing between steel and concrete canyons.

“You’re gawping,” Jack says, elbowing him in the side. 

“No I ain’t,” Arthur says, elbowing him right back. “Just….looking. How fuckin’ high do those buildings go?”

The three of them are crowded in the back of the town car, drowsing as Mave’s chauffeur steers them along. 

“There’s some that go higher, but we're putting you up at the Wrigley,” Maeve says from the front seat. "It's only 30 floors."

Arthur arches his eyebrows. "Oh is that all? Just 30 stories? Might as well be stayin’ in a barn loft."

“Not afraid of heights, are you, Uncle Arthur?”

“You afraid of a broken nose, Jackie?” Arthur says, without real heat. He’s settled in the middle between Jack and Charles, and he slouches down, wriggling against Charles' side until he lifts an arm and lets Arthur tuck in against him, his head falling back onto Charles’ shoulder. 

“Lot different than Montreal,” Charles says, yawning as he traces a finger over Arthur’s shoulder.

“Chicago’s the best goddamn city in the world, and don’t you forget it,” Maeve says, sounding prideful and sure and so much like her momma that it makes Arthur grin. “Alright, here we are. I’d say I’d get the bellhop to help with your bags, but I’m thinking you all didn’t come with a change of clothes?”

“Correct,” Charles says. The only bag they've brought with them is full of weapons, and there’s no way they’re gonna let some kid haul around 20 pounds worth of ammo and guns, no matter how well Molly’s been paying them.

When they pull up to the building, the night doorman steps away from his desk, slipping a coat on as he heads outside to meet them. Arthur can’t imagine they make for a reputable group, all of them save Maeve haggard from the trip, but if he’s suspicious, the doorman don’t look it. He’s an older black gentleman, dressed to the nines in a sharp uniform, and has a face straight enough to shave with. Working nights in the city has probably shown him far stranger sights than their little mismatched gang. He waits patiently as they get out of the car, only smiling once Maeve steps out, pulling her cap off and letting her red hair tumble down around her shoulders. 

“Mister Andrews,” she greets with real enthusiasm, reaching out to shake his hand, and Arthur don’t miss that she’s slid him some cash on the sly. “How’s your evening going?”

“Just fine, Miss McCroy, just fine. Your momma didn’t mention you’d be swinging by tonight.”

She smiles at him, a brilliant little grin that Arthur figures gets her most of what she wants in life, and what it can’t get her, a little bit of green tucked in the right palm probably can. “Had some unexpected visitors in from out of town. You know my friend Elias,” she says, gesturing to Jack. “And this is Mister Kilgore and Mister Eaves. Friends of the family. Momma wanted them put up in the apartments on 28, the ones with the river view.”

“Of course,” he says, ushering them into the lobby. He grabs three sets of keys from behind the desk.

“Just two rooms will do,” Maeve says absently, and that answers Arthur’s question about just how much Jack and Molly have told her. Andrews doesn’t blink, just puts back one set of keys and walks them over to the elevator. 

“The McCroy suites,” he tells the boy manning the elevator. The kid doesn’t have the same poker face as the doorman, and eyes them with obvious curiosity, but straightens up when Andrews clears his throat meaningfully. 

“I’m gonna leave you here, boys,” Maeve says, yawning. “I’ll be in touch tomorrow, if you all can keep out of trouble til then.”

To Arthur’s endless amusement, she and Jack do an awkward little dance around each other, which finally ends with Jack pressing a kiss against her knuckles like some knight out of Chaucer. She laughs, not unkindly, and Jack watches her leave until Charles tugs him by the back of the collar into the elevator.

“You kissed her _hand_ ,” Charles says once the bellboy has them climbing up the floors; Arthur can tell from his voice he’s holding back laughter.

Jack groans, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes. “I _know_ ,” he says despairingly. 

He’s not a complete bastard, so Arthur pats his shoulder soothingly, wrangling back a grin to spare Jack’s tetchy pride. 

“Well, he’s doing a sight better than Marston ever did,” Arthur says, though that ain’t saying much.

“That’s not saying much,” Charles says, watching the little lights above the wrought iron screen blink as they ascend. The little cage rattles worryingly, but Jack and the bellboy don’t even blink, so Arthur hopes that means they’re not about to go plummeting to their deaths. 

When they finally step out into the hallway, it’s finer than any room Arthur’s been in since they were kicking up trouble down in St. Denis, lined with soft yellow sconces and a plush, intricately woven carpet. The bellhop offers to take the bag off Arthur, but doesn’t put up a fight when he’s rebuffed.

“Right this way, gentlemen,” the kid says, looking all of 14 years old and parroting words he’s heard others say with far more ease and experience. He leads them down the hall to two sets of doors, opening them both before passing over the keys. “If you should need anything, please don’t hesitate to let us know.”

Arthur grins, and is patting down his pockets for some change when Jack beats him to the punch, slipping the kid a few coins. “Thanks, Archie. Stay outta trouble now, you hear?”

The kid grins, dropping the stiff, professional act and gives Jack a salute. “You got it, Mister Jones.”

“Mister _Jones_?” Arthur says, once the kid has headed back down the hall to the elevator. “Is that the best you could come up with?”

Jack rolls his eyes. “Like Tacticus Kilgore is so normal and unsuspicious. I’m for bed, fellas. You need any help working out how to use light switches or anything - well, I was gonna say let me know, but to be honest, I don’t wanna see either of your mugs til noon tomorrow at the earliest.”

Charles chuckles, giving Jack a hug goodnight before the kid can protest. “Feeling’s mutual, smartass.”

They _do_ work out the light switches on only the second attempt, Arthur’s hand skittering over the wall until he finds it, flooding the room with soft amber light. They both stare for a moment, taking in the sprawling apartment, bigger by far than their cabin back home. The furniture and decor is simple in the way only big money can buy, all dark, rich tones and elegance. He drops the bag just inside the door, whistling through his teeth. 

“Phew-ee” he says, ambling around the living room. The carpet is deep and soft, muffling his footsteps. In the corner, a bar cart is glistening with crystal and booze. He grabs two tumblers off the shelf, pouring one for each of them. “Is it just me, or has the perks of out-lawing gotten better in the last twenty years?”

“Like Molly would be interested in any gangstering that required digging latrine pits,” Charles says, clinking his glass against Arthur’s. There’s a small balcony off the main room with a sprawling view of the river and the speckled lights of the Loop, still humming along with activity this late in the night. They slip outside, Arthur standing against the railing and Charles wrapped snugly around him, his chin tucked securely over his shoulder. For a long few moments they stand in the almost-silence of the city in the small hours of morning, just them and the chill of the night and the rich, peaty burn of scotch. Arthur tastes it from the glass and then Charles’ mouth when he turns Arthur around, kissing him gently, the wet slide of their lips as natural and familiar as breathing.

“You take me to the nicest places,” Charles deadpans, grinning when Arthur tips their foreheads together, eyes shut against the swell of happiness pressed against the back of his throat. 

“How much you wanna bet Molly put us up here just to make us feel out of place?” Arthur says, because he may not have seen the woman in 20 years, but he wouldn’t put it past her. 

“No bet,” Charles says. “But if her idea of making us feel uncomfortable comes with silk sheets and a door that locks, I’m happy to play along.”

“Speakin’ of...maybe we should check out that bed,” Arthur says, grinning up into Charles’ eyes, still soft and kind after all these years. The color of Arthur’s hair has faded over time, gone grey at the temples, but Charles’ is still rich and dark, just cut through with a few stark strips of white. If anything, he looks even more handsome, the gentle wrinkles at the side of his eyes born far more out of laughter than grief. He’s still the most stunning thing Arthur’s ever laid eyes on.

Arthur’s opening his mouth to say something along those lines when there’s a bit of a commotion to their left and an empty pack of cigarettes hits Arthur in the side of the head. 

Jack is standing on the next balcony over, looking pissy. “I hope you are planning on getting some _sleep_ tonight,” he says significantly. 

“We were just gonna go play a few rounds of cards,” Arthur says innocently, eyes dancing. “Sides, I figure the walls in these fancy new buildings is thick enough.”

“Eugh,” Jack says, but he ain’t wholly disgusted, just petulant in the way kids get when they see their folks making cow eyes at each other. He polishes off the last of the whiskey he’d stepped outside with and shakes his finger at them like an uptight old maid. “You all are worse than most newlyweds, you know that?”

“It’s been said,” Charles allows, looking down at Arthur like he’s hung the moon, and what he likely means is, how could we not be, when none of this was ever promised, when there were so many worlds out there in which they weren’t standing here together, mouths warm with whiskey and braced against each other and the wind. 

Arthur just smirks up at Charles, his hands resting idly on his hips. Across the way, Jack sighs gustily. “Go to _sleep_ ,” he calls, stepping back into his own apartment, though he don’t much sound like he thinks they’re listening.

“What do you say, Mister Smith? Time to turn in?”

Charles takes the empty glass from Arthur’s hand and kisses him again, still grinning. “Lead on, Morgan,” he says, and lets Arthur take him by the hand and pull him inside. 

~*~

Charles wakes for the first time when the light is muted, warm and disoriented and achy from sleeping on a too-soft mattress. Arthur is tucked right where he ought to be, face smashed against Charles’ chest and snoring like a bull. 

“Time’s it?” Arthur mumbles after a few moments, almost certainly still asleep, rubbing his stubble across Charles' chest like a cat. 

Charles checks the clock on the wall. “Nearly six,” he murmurs, pressing a chaste kiss to Arthur’s forehead, sighing happily when Arthur shuffles against him.

“No choring in the big city,” Arthur says, chastising, and turns onto his side, dragging Charles along with him to drape against his spine. “G’back to bed.”

Farm life might have them up and working before sunrise most days, but Charles isn’t so regimented to say no to a lie in, especially when Arthur’s breath has already evened back out into sleep, the bare, beautiful junction of his neck at just the right height to press a slow open mouth kiss to. He curls his arms around Arthur and is back asleep in moments. 

The next time he wakes, daylight is flooding in the windows and the distant murmur of the city is just loud enough to hear. Horns and horses and that restless hum that sticks in his mind like a shard - there’s no real quiet here, people living on top of people, busy and ceaseless. Charles can’t figure why anyone would choose it when the world was still so full of wild, untamed places, but then he considers the soft sheets, the cloying warmth spilling out of the radiators even as the winter sun shines in, crisp and cool. Civilization had its temptations, expensive though they may be. 

A moment later, he clocks what woke him, a sharp polite knock at the door. 

“Y’get it,” Arthur says, sprawled face first in a pillow, probably drooling onto the silk. He’s a mess and a wonder, all tied up in one, and Charles smacks his ass sharply as he rolls out of bed, ignoring the protesting noise and half-hearted swat that follows him.

“Oh sure, you just keep on doing the work of being my personal hot water bottle, hm? I bet it’s tiring work.”

“Fk’you,” Arthur mutters, and is back asleep before Charles makes it to the bedroom door. 

Charles grabs his jeans from where he’d lost them the night before, thrown carelessly over some lamp that probably cost about the same as an honest man’s weekly wages. 

“Alright, alright!” he calls, hopping as he pulls them up, snagging his sawed-off out of the bag by the door. “Hold your horses.” 

A look through the peephole reveals the doorman from the night before, wearing a small patient smile and carrying a stuffed paper bag. 

“Mister Andrews,” Charles says, sliding open the door carefully, hiding the gun behind his back. He’s in just his jeans, still sleep-creased and tousled from bed, but if Andrews makes note of it, there’s not so much as a flicker in his expression. “How can I help you?”

“Miss McCroy asked us to send you up some groceries,” he says, nodding at the bag. “Got the morning edition too, if you like.”

Charles pulls the door the rest of the way open and lets him inside, surreptitiously stowing the gun back in the bag. “Uh, thanks very much, that’s awfully kind of you.”

“All Miss McCroy’s doing,” the doorman calls, picking his way through the living room, still strewn with clothes from the night before. Charles tries to kick Arthur’s drawers under a side table as he trails him to the kitchen.

“They do alright by you?” Charles asks, watching uselessly as Andrews unpacks the bag, stowing away eggs and a rasher of bacon in the icebox. He looks around for his shirt but can’t place it - he thinks Arthur might’ve chucked it on the mantle, but it ain’t there - maybe fell down during the night? It’s the only one he came with, goddammit. “The McCroy’s, I mean?”

“Yessir, Mister Eaves, they do,” he says cheerfully. “They treat us like some of the family. Get invited to the Christmas party every year and all, and the McCroys do put on quite a soiree.” He takes out some fresh bread and a tin of fancy looking coffee and leaves it alongside the stove. “When my wife came down with a fever last spring, Mrs. McCroy sent her own personal doctor over to see to her, got her well inside the week.” He unfolds the paper and leaves it sitting on the small cafe table perched by the window, absently straightening the fresh vase of flowers. “They’re good people, the McCroys,” he adds, glancing up with a significant sort of look. “I don’t hold with people who say otherwise. And I certainly don’t judge them or their friends for what they may or may not do.”

Charles smiles a bit, nodding. Maybe that was one thing Dutch had never quite figured out when it came to leading folk. Sometimes you didn’t need a dream of a radically different tomorrow - sometimes all it took was some compassion and some cash in the right palm. “That’s real good to hear, Mister Andrews,” Charles says, “I’ve known Molly since...well, since before she found her way to Chicago. Glad she’s doing some good in the world.”

“Mostly good,” Andrews says, winking at him as he slides back to the apartment door. “You need anything at all, sir, please do ring the front desk. I’m headed home now, but the day doorman, Mister Greaves, will certainly help you with whatever you need. I believe Mrs. McCroy was going to have some spare clothes sent up for you sometime today.”

“Clothes?” Charles says, seeing him to the door. “What for?”

Andrews eyes slide over the disordered living room, Arthur’s undershirt hanging jauntily off the painting over the couch. He blinks at Charles innocently. “I’m sure I can’t imagine,” he says smoothly. “You have a nice day now, Mister Eaves. Welcome to Chicago.”

~*~

Charles is halfway through cooking the bacon when Arthur stumbles out of the bedroom, nude and rumpled, blinking poleaxed around the apartment.

“Coffee’s on,” Charles says, watching idly as Arthur bends over to scoop his pants off the floor, taking a moment to admire the view. Arthur isn’t much with his words at the best of times, and even less so before his first cuppa, so Charles isn’t surprised when Arthur drifts into the kitchen and wraps himself around Charles’ back, rubbing his nose against the back of his neck.

“Mornin,” he says eventually, as if his brain has finally come to the conclusion that it’s awake and should make some stumbling attempts toward conversation. “Where’d the grub come from?”

“Molly sent us up some groceries,” Charles says, “Or Maeve did. Tch, if it had been Molly who did it, probably would’ve been canned beans and jerky.” Charles starts transferring the bacon to the fine, inlaid plates - if there was everyday china in the cabinets, Charles hadn’t been able to track it down. “Don’t think she probably has much faith in our cookin’ skills.”

“Like that woman could serve up anything but her own temper,” Arthur says, detaching to grab a cup of coffee, hopping up onto the counter beside Charles. “What do you make of all this?” he asks, nodding at the apartment. “Molly and her little kingdom. Or queendom, I s’ppose.”

Charles shrugs, cracking a few eggs into the skillet. “Figure she done alright by herself. Just hope she done alright by others as well. She’s gotten good at getting folks’ loyalty. And her daughter seems kind.”

“But…”

“But I still wouldn’t go out of my way to trust her,” Charles says plainly, moving the eggs around the pan. “Don’t think she’d ever turn snitch on us, god knows, but...just never took her for much of a bleeding heart. I know she’s not running a charity outfit, but part of me doesn't think she’s likely to look after folk if she didn’t need them for some reason.”

Arthur just nods, sighing. “You ain’t wrong. Concerns me a bit, Jackie runnin’ so much with her lads, getting all lathered up about all this - ” he says, gesturing around at the fine apartment with his mug. “Reminds a bit of - “

 _Dutch_ , he doesn’t say, but the name hangs unsaid in the room between them, lingering like a ghost. Oh, Dutch, with his fine silk vests and gold pocket watch, drinking expensive liquor and selling them a dream with one hand and sliding a blade between their ribs with the other. The anger is old and familiar and, ultimately, useless. No use raging at a man more than 15 years dead. Not when Charles knows that some treacherous part of Arthur has never given up loving the old bastard. They’ve had that fight enough times. 

“Jack’s got a good head on his shoulders,” Charles says instead. “He might get - distracted with all this, but he’s not a fool. Not a complete one, anyway,” he adds, smiling as he leans over to kiss Arthur. “Food’s up, grab the bread, would you - butter’s in the fridge.”

They’re tucking into breakfast and trading back and forth sections of the paper when there’s another knock at the door, followed by Jack hollering out, “Open up, old timers! It’s me!”

“Oh fer godsake,” Arthur grumbles, levering himself out of the chair and picking his undershirt off the picture frame on his way to the door. He’s pulling it on as he opens it, revealing Jack all done up in a fresh change of clothes, hair slicked back and mustache waxed, his tie hanging undone around his shoulders. “What the hell’re you doin’ up?” Arthur asks, stepping aside to let him in. 

“Smelled breakfast,” Jack chirps, sliding into the kitchen to pour himself a cup of coffee and snag leftovers out of the pan.

“Didn’t they send you groceries?” Charles asks, “Hey, you finish that pot, you better put another one on.”

Jack waves him away, turning to set up the percolator on the stove. “Nah, Mister Andrews don’t like me in the kitchen. There was a few….incidents. Most he’ll let me have is cereal and milk.”

“Wise man,” Arthur mutters, dropping back across from Charles. “What the hell you wearing anyway?”

“Keep a few changes of clothes here,” Jack says, hopping up onto the counter. “I’ve got some errands to run this morning.” When Charles and Arthur exchange a look, he sighs. “Nothing to do with the McCroys. Just got some shopping to do.”

Arthur snorts. “Gonna buy more monkey suits?”

“Could be I am,” Jack says, refusing to be baited. 

Charles peers at him over the top of the paper. “If you’re going shoppin’, you ought to get something for your momma. You scared the hell out of her getting shot, you know, and her birthday’s coming up.”

“I know, I know, I’m not an idiot, I’m getting her something at the jewelry counter in Marshall Fields. I got my pay from the last job, plus some extra for getting shot.” He chugs the last of his coffee, jumping down off the counter. “So don’t you worry, I’m gonna spread it around.”

“I thought you were supposed to be our tour guide,” Arthur says, feigning disappointment. “What the hell’re we supposed to do all day?”

Jack rolls his eyes, which Charles can see clearly because he’s preening in front of the living room mirror, busily doing up his tie. “This is a city of a thousand delights, fellas. You could take in a show, hit up any of their fine museums. Go shopping on the Magnificent Mile. Hell, you could even go check out City Hall if you get really damn bored.” He spins around with a flourish, slipping his fancy new bowler onto his head. “But, knowing you two, maybe you should start small, familiarize yourself with the wonders of indoor plumbing.”

Charles picks up an apple and chucks it at Jack’s head, who only laughs, picking it easily out of the air. “Have a good day!” he calls, taking a bite out of the apple and darting out the apartment door. 

“I take it back, he’s a damn fool,” Charles sighs, watching idly as Arthur stands and starts collecting the dishes in the kitchen sink. 

“I don’t know, I think he’s got a point.”

Charles raises his eyebrows. “You want to go down to City Hall? See if we can get a meeting with the Police Commissioner?”

“Nah,” Arthur says, turning around and bracing himself against the counter. “You get a good look at the bathroom yet?”

“No?”

Arthur grins at him, the kind of smile that still catches Charles’ breath all these years later, dirty and hopeful and sly. “Should see the clawfoot monstrosity they got in there. Looks plenty big enough for two.”

~*~

They fuck in the tub.

The bathroom is near to palatial, slick with fine white tile and a vaulted ceiling, steam making the air thick and humid, fogging the mirrors and windows until it feels like the rest of the world has faded away into mist. It’s just them, the soft sounds of water moving, and the gentle noise Charles makes as he sinks into Arthur’s lap, his arms braced on the rim of the tub above Arthur’s head, his hair hanging in a damp curtain around them. 

“Christ,” Arthur breathes, sliding into the water until it’s just below his chin, his fingers restless and impatient where they’re clenched around Charles’ hips beneath the water. “Good lord, look at you.”

Charles flashes him a smile, rolling his hips in a soft, easy rhythm that sloshes water around them. It ain’t necessarily been an easy way of life, working the farm every day, picking up some, ah, slightly less than legal side jobs when the chance presents itself, but it’s kept them from getting too old too quick; Charles body is thick with muscle and so firm under his hands, Arthur can’t help but jerk up into him, fingers skidding along slick skin. They both groan, Charles dipping his head to brush their mouths together. 

“I ain't ever gonna get tired of lookin’ at you,” Arthur gasps, grinding up into the slick heat of Charles’ body. 

“Sweet talker,” Charles says, closing his eyes when Arthur gets a hand around him, jerking into his fist with a quiet, stuttering noise that Arthur has come to adore as much as Charles’ smile, his patience, the groggy way he reaches for him in the middle of the night. 

“It’s true,” Arthur murmurs senselessly, jerking Charles’ cock in slow counterpoint to his hips. He tips his head up, catching Charles' bottom lip between his teeth, worrying it gently the way he knows he likes. Charles makes a wrecked noise into his mouth, his whole body going tense as Arthur works the hand between his legs, his hips grinding down in an increasingly unsteady rhythm.

“Arthur,” he says, voice soft and choked, and Arthur firms up his grip on Charles cock, twisting his fist mercilessly over the hot, stiff head, feeling the sprits of precome even among the water, the slickness of it unmistakable. 

“That’s it, darlin’,” he says, shifting up enough to suck a kiss to Charles’ shoulder, where the mark will be safely hidden away by his shirt. Charles is vise-like around him, his body shaking with the effort of holding off, and the water splashes and splashes onto the floor as they move together, words petering out into quiet, inarticulate moans. 

Charles comes first, locked up around Arthur so perfectly that it makes something in Arthur’s mind white out. Charles is shaking a bit as he comes down, and he presses their foreheads together, his breath hot and sweet over Arthur’s lips. 

“C’mon,” Charles says soothingly, the rumble of his voice echoing through Arthur’s own fraught ribcage. He braces himself over Arthur, letting Arthur fuck up into him in the short, rough thrusts that make staving off finishing impossible. Just as Arthur’s teetering on the edge, his balls drawn up so tight against his body, his cock aching in the impossibly sweet clutch of Charles’ body, Charles dips his head down to kiss him, messy and sloppy, pressing Arthur down against the warm porcelain; that’s when Arthur comes, with his fingers tight on Charles’ hips and Charles’ tongue curled cleverly in his mouth.

Afterwards, they breathe against each other for a long few moments, giggling into one another’s mouths like a pair of lovestruck fools.

“Here,” Arthur says, once they’ve untangled themselves. “Lemme scrub your back.”

They drain off some of the cooling water, turning the hot tap back on until the bath is nearly scalding. Charles does let Arthur scrub his back, leaning forward to give him more room, making soft, appreciative noises as Arthur digs his thumbs into the muscle of his shoulders. 

“Ahh, you’re brutal,” Charles says, once Arthur has been at the same spot for five minutes.

“I’m a bastard, I know,” Arthur says, running his hands down Charles’ back before he tugs him back against him. Charles' hair smells of the floral soap they’d found beside the tub, and when he laces his fingers through Charles’, he pulls their hands up to press a kiss against the wrinkled pads of his fingers. 

“You want to go take in a show?” Arthur says grinning against the back of Charles’ ear. “I’ll buy you some chocolates and hold your hand through the scary bits and all.”

“My hero,” Charles drawls, lifting their twined hands to nip at Arthur’s knuckles. “Y’know, I ain’t too bothered about staying busy all day.”

“No?”

“We got an ice-box full of groceries and a big soft bed. Think we’ll figure the rest out just fine.”

Arthur grins, gathering Charles back against his chest with greedy, wandering hands. 

“You always been better at plannin’ than me,” Arthur says, with more truth than he means to. “We’re gonna have to go down to Molly’s club tonight, though.”

Charles groans, his head dropping back on Arthur’s shoulder. “I know, I know. Gotta make nice, I suppose. Just...we should be careful, is all.”

“Ain’t about to ask her for a loan,” Arthur says. “Just wanna feel out her business a bit. Abigail will feel better knowin’ a bit more ‘bout what she expects outta Jack.”

Unwillingly, Charles says, “Heard the music she’s got down the club is pretty alright.”

“Dance with me and I’ll let you lead,” he says, hiding his grin in the back of Charles’ neck, breathing in the clean, lovely smell of him.

Charles laughs brightly, unrestrained. “When don’t you?”

~*~

The day passes by hazily - in some respects, it reminds Arthur of all those times he and Charles struck out on the road together, slipping away first from whatever little encampment the gang called home and then later the homestead in Lamarch. Idle days spent traveling down dusty roads, laughing and screwing, not too much concerned about the world outside the pair of them. Of course, the sheets they’re mussing up here are far finer than their bedrolls, and there ain’t any long hours of exhausting travel, but that’s just down to the details. It’s still just the two of them, hiding out from the world in a small, soft enclave of their own making. 

They let the radio play through the afternoon, watch the traffic slink by below from the balcony, and when that loses its charm, they screw around again, more to pass the time than anything else.

“We ain’t too old,” Arthur says, breathless, once he’s rolled off Charles and into the sheets. He’s sweat slick and wonderfully achey; Charles has still got one hand looped around the bedpost, the other shakily wiping sweat off his face. 

“Uh huh,” Charles says, watching Arthur with drowsy satisfaction, his grin making him look a whole ten years younger, boyish and sharp. 

The bellhop drops by after supper, carrying two garment bags almost bigger than himself. Arthur takes them into the bedroom and hangs them up warrily, eyeing them over as Charles wanders in from the living room, the book he’s been reading dangling from one hand.

“You look like you’re being sentenced,” Charles says, leaning in the doorway and grinning.

Arthur huffs. “Ain’t so sure I’m not. The way Jackie was acting, sounds like we’re gonna have to get dudded up for this thing tonight. I ain’t much for fancy clothes.”

“Nor me,” Charles says, sighing. “But let's see what she sent us. Otherwise Jackie might die of shame before we even make it through the front doors.”

It could be worse, Arthur decides, watching Charles shrug into a fitted navy blazer, dragging his braid out of the collar and letting it tumble down his back. There wasn’t much that could outdo the look of Charles in nothing but what god gave him, but this could be a distant second. Maybe third, behind his sweat-stained, dusty work clothes at the end of a long day. The suit might’ve looked foolish on anyone else, Arthur reckons, but the rich blue, the wide lapels, the double-breasted buttons - all of it made for a look sharp enough to cut.

“Don’t gimme that look,” Charles chides, slipping the provided fedora onto his head. “You know well as I do that Jackie’s gonna be here any second, and he’ll screech at us if we’re not dressed in time.”

“He screeches no matter what we do,” Arthur grumbles, but gives up on fluttering his eyelashes at Charles for another round before they leave. “Help me fix this damn thing, would you?”

“I _know_ you know how to tie a tie,” Charles says, coming over to futz with Arthur’s collar. His own suit is a soft charcoal grey, spun outta some fine wool and run through with faint pinstripes. He feels like he must look a fool, but the look Charles runs over him says there’s _some_ redeeming qualities to it. 

“I spent far too much time dodging a hemp collar to be easy around a silk one,” Arthur grumbles, lifting his chin to give Charles room. There’s a tender bite on his collar bone just below Charles’ fingers, and Charles idly presses his thumb against it after he knots the tie, tipping Arthur’s head up to give him a kiss. They’d both shaved this afternoon - moreso to fit in than because of Jack’s constant fretting about their fashion choices. There was probably still old bounties for the pair of them floating around somewhere - lawmen got long memories and can hold a grudge like no other - and the less they rocked the boat, the better. Still, it was strange, the soft press of Charles’ cheek against his own, no scrape of stubble chasing the kiss. 

“Hell,” Arthur says against Charles’ lips, fitting his hands around his hips and dragging him flush. “Jackie’s always late, I figure we can - “

There’s loud knock on the door - far too brash to be the bellhop or the doorman, and Arthur lets his head tip back with a groan. 

“Kids been interrupting us since he was five god-damned years old,” Arthur calls as Charles slips away to get the door. 

Jack steps in wearing what is almost certainly a brand new tuxedo, looking spit shined and fresh as a daisy. There’s even a little rose bud tucked in his lapel, and that damn, fool mustache looks like he’s spent some time sharpening it up.

“I thought we was going to the club tonight,” Arthur says, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning in the bedroom door.

Jack cocks an eyebrow at him. “We are, ‘less you want to beg off, in which case I wouldn’t stop ya-”

“Then why’re you dressed like a waiter?”

Charles snorts, covering his mouth with his hand. Jack glares at the pair of them. “I know you aren’t so thick not to know that fitting in is _helpful_ in this line of work.”

“Hmmm…” Arthur says, eyeing him over. “I’d say you’re trying to do just about anything you can to _fit in_ with Miss Maeve McCroy.”

“You stay out of it,” Jack says, crossing to the bathroom to fuss at his mustache in the mirror. “I’m a grown man, I can keep my own affairs in order - Jesus, what the hell did you do in here? Did you keep any water in the damn tub - oh, _god_ ,” he shouts, stomping back out into the living room, blushing up to his ears. “Do the pair of you ever STOP?”

“Not sure what you’re talking about there, Jackie boy,” Charles says, grinning as he tosses a heavy coat towards Arthur. “Now c’mon then. Why don’t you show us this little fancy private club of yours. Hell, Arthur and I even promise not to embarrass you.”

Jack regards them suspiciously. “Really?”

Charles grins over at Arthur, his eyes dancing. “....nah,” he says, laughing outright when Jack groans. They spill into the hallway, Charles pressing a kiss to Arthur’s temple as he turns to lock up. “Let's get this over with - suppose there’s worse things in the world than choking down cocktails made by some asshole with a bad mustache.”

“Jackie’s tending bar tonight?” Arthur asks innocently, winking when Charles turns to give him a look that’s trying to be stern but does a piss poor job of hiding his laughter.

“Yuck it up shit-for-brains,” Jack calls back to them, shrugging into his coat and stalking off the the elevator, “See if I get you shmucks outta trouble later.”

“You hear that,” Arthur says, goosing Charles on the sly just to see that indignant, fond look it always startles out of him. “Guess we better behave ourselves.”

Charles shakes his head, bumping his shoulders against Arthur’s. “First time for everything, I suppose.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait! It's just *gestures vaguely around at the world*
> 
> Many many thanks to [nukapoprocket](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nukapoprocket/pseuds/nukapoprocket)/[superfxckboy](https://superfxckboy.tumblr.com/), who kindly beta'd. You're a gift <3
> 
> As always, I'm over at [allthingsmustfall](https://allthingsmustfall.tumblr.com/)


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